She was quite tired of the stream of visitors and heard with relief the words of her newfound great-aunt, addressed to her son’s butler. “I’ve thought about it. It was a sort of cooking-room, with an immense fire-place flanked by a couple of cauldrons, and was called Jack Ketch's Kitchen, because the quarters of persons executed for treason were there boiled by the hangman in oil, pitch, and tar, before they were affixed on the city gates, or on London Bridge. “No lecturing, Anna!” she exclaimed. "We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices. ’ The questions that had long haunted her came out at last. Wood, who looks after her comforts, and visits her constantly.
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